


Blue Monkey, Bleeding Heart

by hiimraen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drug Use, Gawd, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, NOT 'Drug Abuse', OHMAIGAWD, Peter is Creeping, THIS WAS DONE BECAUSE I HAVE EXAMS TOMORROW, There is a Hurt!Stiles tag, YOLO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:59:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiimraen/pseuds/hiimraen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski had a blue monkey, once.</p><p>Derek Hale might have an idea or two about where that blue monkey went.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Past

**Author's Note:**

> Okay guys. Ahahahahaha. For some reason I felt like laughing, sorry.
> 
> Okay in all seriousness, I am truly and utterly confused with myself. I can't watch a video/listen to a song/hear someone's sob story without thinking, 'This will be a great Sterek and/or Teen Wolf fanfic material'. I mean, come on.
> 
> This one is highly influenced by this video ---> (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BX8tv3OgKnA) I saw the video once, and thought, 'Awww, wouldn't it be nice if Stiles - BAM! - okay this fic is real!' Read on and please don't cry.
> 
> There's a line or two in this chapter that was deliberately stolen from a fic and a song, appeared in this order. Internet cookies for those who managed to find those, and thank you to the respective writers for coming up with what I call as a brilliant sentence. AKA I'm a lazy bitch.
> 
> This is un-betaed. Proceed with your own risk. That being said, do enjoy - kudos, comments, both are my pleasure to receive. *wink wink*
> 
> ETA: I am so sorry. I forgot to mention one important stuff. The names for the Sheriff and his wife came from my current obsession with The Walking Dead. I'm still going through Season 2, and yeah, I still have that exam tomorrow. God.

_0_

 

The day he lost his mother, Stiles also lost his dearest friend.

 

The only person who noticed this was Dad and Scott.

 

The only person who talked about it was Scott.

 

“Where’s Kiki?” Scott asked at the funeral, standing a step behind Stiles. Stiles, startled of the question, dropped the bouquet of flower meant for his mother, and turned around to hug Scott as he cried to his shoulder. That day, he swore to himself he’d be anything that Scott wants him to be, and that he’ll always be with Scott no matter what happened.

 

 

***

 

 

_I_

 

"Shh, Stiles don't cry," Laurie pleaded, her own voice sounded as shaky as her hands were as she brushed off Stiles' long bangs off his eyes, his small fist rubbing angrily at his teary eyes. The blue monkey toy, Kiki, was in his hand – loyal as always – the phone and the crumpled letter with the hospital’s letterhead on the floor, as if mocking her for this, for keeping this away from her son.

 

One of the two things that she still has – that she can still call hers.

 

She pulled Stiles closed to her chest, as her son poured his heart out on her bosom, bawling with nothing but sobs and sniffs. "Shh, it’s okay. Sometimes, things happened for a reason."

 

 

***

 

 

_II_

 

The blue monkey was a gift from Dad. He and Mom had went to somewhere in the South East Asia region – "To be specific, it was a huge rundown market in between Malaysia and Thailand – the place was so _huge_!" Dad had said – and at the sight of the lanky blue monkey toy, instantly thought of their only grandchild, who turned one-year old only last month while they were away. Stiles, true to his first name (which, till this very day Laurie was sure Rick will never _ever_ pronounced it right – it was Latvian, so figures really) had instantly bonded with the blue monkey, screaming at the top of his lungs "Ki! Ki!" over and over again, which turned out to be baby talk for 'monkey', and was then officially named Kiki since then.

 

Kiki soon become Stiles' best-toy – although in Stiles' defense, it is more of a best friend relationship – Stiles would (baby)talk to Kiki, play with him, run around the house and bringing chaos to every single room with that lanky, blue monkey toy dragged around with one hand gripped tightly in one of Stiles'. Rick had been dumbfounded at first – he was ready to have Stiles talking to no one in particular (the 'invisible friend' phase, as Rick had named it). Heck, he was even ready to come back home from the station to see Stiles in an all-pink gear with a ballerina flats and a plastic tiara on – but no, Stiles had stayed adamant with Kiki, and _thank God_ , had never shown any interest in ever being a ballerina-princess.

 

(Laurie won't deny it, it's cute, but good Lord, she had prayed for a boy because she just _hated_ pink, so much – the moment the doctor confirmed that it was a boy, she had called all of her close relatives and close friends and _neighbours_ and her _bakers-club members_ that, just like she had told them all these time, there shall be no pink-coloured anything for her baby because she'll be having a very, very brave boy.

 

Now, if Stiles insisted on a red-gear though, she might be (easily) persuaded then.)

 

2 weeks prior to Stiles' third birthday, both his grandparents had passed away. It was tragic, as all deaths were, even more so because they had called just that morning, telling that they'll be coming for Stiles' birthday party, along with another present ("A puppy, but _shh_! Don't tell him that yet."). 12 hours later, another call came in, from a local hospital, asking for Mr. and Mrs. Avots family member. Laurie's heart was beating as fast as Stiles' little feet was able to move for him, running around the hall with Kiki in one hand, his arms spread eagle and his mouth making the _'vroom vroom'_ sound of a car. She didn't recalled making any sound – the nurse had calmly told her the news, and had asked her to come in to identify the body as soon as she could – when Stiles trudged in the kitchen, a questioning look on his beautiful face, Kiki clutched tight to his chest.

 

"Mom?"

 

And just like that, she had fall down to her knees, tears streaming her face, and Stiles immediate reaction was to cry along and came rushing to her arms, trying his best to tell her that "everything is going to be okay" and "shh, I'm here", all the while broken gasps and chokes hiccupping his rushed speech.

 

And that was how Rick found them both - sitting on the kitchen floor, huddled and face tear-stained. Even Kiki's smiling face looked a bit too sad.

 

 

***

 

 

_III_

 

" _Mooom!_ I'm a big boy now; I'm not going to cry or anything!" Stiles' whining was so cute, Laurie thought to herself. Stiles had been fusing around the house for about a week now since Rick had announced that he'll be attending the preschool over dinner. Both he and Laurie had gone shopping for new school bag and pencils and new colour pencils and new _everything_.

 

And yes, sure, technically Stiles was big enough to actually go to a preschool, but he's still her baby-boo and later he'll be going to a mid school and after that high school and he’ll meet girls and as them out for proms and then came back home crying about a pregnant girlfriend and –

 

A heavy, grounding presence wrapped around her back, encasing the arms she had around Stiles, and just like that, all thoughts about Stiles and his (made-up) future fled her mind. "He's going to be okay, won't you, kiddo?" Rick's voice was like a balm to her beating heart, and Stiles' confident smile made all her worries seemed so tiny compared to all the great things that her kid will achieve. Laurie can't help but chuckled along when Stiles nodded enthusiastically and fused about his hair when Rick ran his hand on top of his head.

 

"So," Rick announced, as he ignored Stiles' attempt at dislodging his offending hand off his head, "here's the deal Mommy dearest; our grown-up kid here –"

 

"I'm a _grown-up_?!"

 

"Don't give him ideas, Rick!"

 

"Well, too bad, 'cause he's going to go to school –"

 

" _Pre_ school"

 

"And you, Mommy dearest, is going to go back home with me, with the new cruiser that I just got my hands on. And our son is going to learn about stuff and how to be a great man and he is going to grow up even more and he'll come back home even more matured than we'll ever known a kid his age is ever capable of doing so – how about that?"

 

Even if Stiles' wide grin wasn't the tipping point, she was sure she'll say yes to everything that Rick had just said. But as it was, she had just smiled back at Stiles, and looked at Rick's stupidly-proud face over her shoulder, and kissed him chastely on his lips, before answering him in a soft voice, "I believe that is a great plan, Daddy dearest."

 

Stiles had jumped at that, and gave them both an energetic hug, before thrusting Kiki into her hands, saying that he's a _grown-up_ boy now ("I told you not to give him ideas.") and that he doesn't need Kiki for his first day of school. Both the Stilinskis had walked a few feet behind Stiles, who was running and smiling to his first official class, and when Stiles had finally taken his seat and had waved his final goodbye to both of his parents, they had both walked back to the cruiser, Kiki held tightly to Laurie's chest. If there were any tears that escaped any of the parents, none of them were any wiser.

 

 

*

 

 

Later that evening, when Stiles had securely buckled himself to the back seat, he had started to ramble on and on about his first day at school. (Although technically it was his second day - the first day was his introduction day few days back, where parents had came along with their children to see about how the day-to-day was run and all that fuss.) Stiles had also mentioned something about a kid named Scott who he believed was a Scottish (hardly), and how that kid always had an inhaler with him named Mickey, which he held in his hands throughout the whole day, and how he had promised Scott that he'll bring Kiki along to school too tomorrow, since he too have something that he have to have with him all the time, and that he didn't bring Kiki to his first day at school (" _Pre_ school, Stiles") because he's afraid that the other kids will make fun of him, but now since Scott has his Mickey, Stiles can have his Kiki.

 

Laurie had casted a sidelong smile at Rick, who seemed like he can't help but smiling to Stiles' story either.

 

Since then, Stiles had never missed a day of school, and neither did Kiki.

 

 

***

 

 

_IV_

 

Stiles was 5, and Rick was at home with his left ankle in a cast thanks to a genius moron who thought that it'll be a great idea to rob a drugstore 8 in the freaking morning. (Okay no, he actually sprained his ankle while tackling said genius down to the ground, but still, his point stands). Now, Rick had to rest his foot for about a week, which means home rest and normal office hours with normal (and boring) office job back at the station. But he could not argue more – he'll be having even more time with both Stiles and Laurie, so it was more of a win-win situation really (he did caught that moron, so yeah, _win-win_ ).

 

It was a Saturday and God either loves him or it was just his luck, but the Sheriff had looked at him once and said that he could get his sorry ass off the front desk and just go back home before he felt like "a complete asshole for asking my injured deputy to guard the freaking front desk, like it's a time-off" and Rick was off and out of the station in record time, with casted ankle and all. When he reached home, Laurie was just about to drop off Stiles with their neighbour, Mrs. Meyers, to go the store for an emergency grocery run. Rick (and Stiles) was happy to announce that he could take care of their little runt.

 

So that was how he ended up at home in a Saturday morning. In another 3 days, he was about to get his cast off – his cast which was full with Stiles' handy (and lovely, not that he’s going to say that out loud or anything) drawings and one prominent kiss mark with Laurie's favourite lipstick...and _wow, inappropriate thoughts about your wife in front of your child,_ not _really good, control yourself Rick_.

 

He was sitting in the loveseat in the living room with a mug of steaming coffee in one hand, the other with that morning's paper, Stiles and Kiki playing with a stack of building bricks on the floor a few feet away from him. It was only half an hour since he arrived back home, and about the same time since Laurie first ran off to the store, when suddenly the sound of heavy rainfall echoed from outside of the house. Stiles had all but abandoned his scattered bricks and when to the windowpane looking outside, tiptoeing to see the summer spray, Kiki's face smashed on the window thanks to Stiles' consideration for Kiki’s dying wish of being smashed to the window to see the rain.

 

Seconds later Stiles had shuffled slowly to his side, Kiki tucked underneath his folded hands in front of him. "Dad?" Stiles' silent voice was warrant enough for Rick to know what he was about to ask. "Hey, hey now," he said as he folded the paper haphazardly and ran his palms over and over again on Stiles' long, brown locks. "She's going to be okay, ya hear me? She's going to come back home when the rain ease off a bit and she’s going to cook us whatever it is that she wants too, although I hope it’s not any of her experiment – once is enough for me, don’t you think?” Beside him Stiles chuckled at that – Laurie had seen one episode of Iron Chef and instantaneously decided that she’ll make one of the recipe prepared in the show; let’s just say the both of them were thankful that it actually went out easy.

 

“Besides,” he said, as a small smile tugged off his lips, catching Stiles' attention, "I have a lot of fun under the rain while I was a kid." Fortunately, his attempt to lighten up the subject by talking about his childhood was a success, when Stiles' face lit up upon the word 'fun'. "Really?" he asked breathlessly.

 

And really, who was he to deny his son's persistent demand to actually feel how the drops of summer rain on his own skins?

 

*

 

Laurie snorted at the two sniffling men of her life. "You guys are just _pathetic_."

 

There's a chorus of 'hey' from the two said pathetic guys, and a similarly synchronized grin forming on two faces when they both looked at each other. "No, seriously," she continued, "who the heck played under the rain and _fall sick_ right after that?"

 

"Scott?" Stiles tried, and Rick coughed up a chuckle at that.

 

"Wow, that is just low, Stiles. The answer was supposed to be ‘pathetic guys’, just like the two of you."

 

Rick, who had a wet folded towel on his forehead just like his son elbowed Stiles, who was lying next to him on his son’s bed. "She's just jealous she was stuck in the middle of nowhere and can't go around *cough* running in the rain or else someone might call her crazy." Stiles had answered that by laughing and coughing, before snuggling closer to his dad.

 

Laurie sighed as she plucked the two towels off their foreheads. "Yeah, right."

 

*

 

He was right, though - she was jealous. But like hell she'll tell any of them.

 

 

***

 

 

_V_

 

She wasn't planning on telling Stiles, not now at least. Rick had agreed with her plan – go to the hospital _only_ during the week days, while Stiles is still at school, and tried to act as tough as she could while waiting for Rick to come back home later the evening. People at the station were all really understanding and tolerant - they had not only offered condolences but they had also somehow managed to make Rick's a permanent fixture on the morning shift, for as long as he needed it.

 

Heck, the plan was going on smoothly the first month – the only hiccup was that Stiles had asked about why his dad bothered to cook (“It’s not that good, Dad. _I_ can do even better pancakes than these”) and why did she looked a little pale. Her smile instantly died when Stiles’ question left his mouth – Rick assured her that she wasn't showing any obvious signs, not as long as she was smiling like she always had and don’t forgets her make-up foundation. Fortunately or otherwise, Stiles accepted her explanation, "I just caught some fever, but I'm okay really, some medicine and I'll be good as new, okay?"

 

Soon enough, Stiles was (sadly) used to her condition, and in a blink of an eye, it was already three months after her first treatment. She was losing her hair, yes, but it wasn’t that bad – only a few strains more, here and there. It was the medication, the doctor had explained, that and the radiation from her treatment.

 

The doctor also said that she should cherish the time that she still have the pleasure of spending with her family, the time to be with her husband and son, instead of mulling about whether or not she’s going to tell Stiles about her condition, whether or not Stiles will ever forgive her for lying to him. And she thought to herself, _yeah, you know what? The doctor is 100% correct. Rather than killing myself over whether or not Stiles will ever find out about any of this, I’d rather spent my time with Stiles, even if I have to lie about it_.

 

And that she did – she cherished all the little time that she still have, and she fought on, fighting for herself, for Rick, and most of all, for Stiles.

 

*

 

It was exactly 4 months, 2 weeks and 5 days after her first treatment (she had a personal calendar), and she received her second test result. The initial blood test result was the during day 00 – although Laurie often called that day ‘The Day I Should Never Talk About Pregnancies, _At All_ ’ in her brain – and the latest one was taken a week and a half ago, during one  of her treatment sessions. The doctor said they would need to keep tally with all these tests and blood work and all that so that whatever happened, whatever changes, they’ll know and they can take appropriate action towards it.

 

Laurie was sleeping on her bed, the bright yellow smiley-faced band aid was still on her arm after she had came back from her weekly treatment. She remembered the test result in the kitchen, squished underneath Kiki under the kitchen table, but it's okay though – Stiles had soccer training until 6 (one of the few things that he insisted on joining) and she’s just going to take a short nap – she’ll hide it later, after her much needed nap.

 

Naturally, it wasn’t her fault for not hearing the heavy thump of a sack – a _backpack_ – coming from the front door.

 

Nor the calls for her – a familiar voice yelling about wanting to finish off all her chocolate chip cookies that she baked last weekend. The triumphant cry as the jar that Laurie had hid behind various canned soups was found, the sound of Stiles' humming to the delicious cookies.

 

None of that registered to her ears. Not even the pregnant silent that came after that.

 

The sound of papers crunching.

 

The sound of heavy footsteps, and the sound of someone heaving – _that’s not her_ – and sniffling.

 

The sobbing noises as the phone was dialed.

 

The choked off 'Dad'- that, that she heard. She had fought the fog of drowsiness, and had slowly walked out of her room; thinking about what was her son doing when she caught the tell-tale end of a conversation; a silent "Is she going to die?"

 

Then…then she ran down the stairs as fast as her sleep-addled legs could carry her and snatched the phone right of Stiles' hands – _they were trembling,_ God _those hands were shaking_ so bad _. And so is mine. Shit_. She hadn't realised that she was crying – the only thing that she could see at that moment was the image of her son, tears streaming down his face. She had fallen to her knees, the phone falling down to the floor with a soft thud and sliding to Stiles' feet, just right next to a crumpled letter with the hospital letterhead, the content of which she had memorized, the words embedded in her brain.

 

_...showed no positive progressions..._

 

_...increased treatment hours to further improves the chances..._

 

"Why?" Stiles asked, as he rubbed off tears from his eyes with his right hand. "Shh, Stiles don't cry," Laurie pleaded, her own voice sounded as shaky as her hands were as she brushed off Stiles' long bangs off his eyes, his small fist rubbing angrily at his teary eyes, his beautiful face scrunched up even harder as more tears spilled over his cheeks.

 

Her beautiful son – one of the two things that she still has – that she can still call hers.

 

She pulled Stiles closed to her chest, as her son poured his heart out on her bosom, bawling with nothing but sobs and sniffs. "Shh, it’s okay. Sometimes, things happened for a reason."

 

*

 

That night, they had all slept in Stiles' bed. It was small, but enough for them – and it was the ‘them’ that really mattered, anyway. And as Laurie ran her hands over Stiles' hair, Rick kissed the back of her neck as he whispered bitter nothings to her, promising that everything will be alright, that it will all come back to the way things were – before this, before anything.

 

Laurie sighed, the sound of it loud in the dead of the night. “But he’s only 7, and he still have 11 more years of school and I want to see all of them, see him graduate,” at that, she felt Rick’s arms tightened on her waist, his lips plastered to her shoulder. “Don’t,” he said, and she did – she didn’t continue.

 

One word. Just one, bloody word, but she knew what Rick was saying. Of course she knew – she felt in love with this man; this man who for the love of God can’t even articulate his intention to her without trying 5 times and even then he refused each help that she offered, despite the looks that people were giving them; the same man that she had built a family with, from which a child that was hers as much as it was his was conceived. A child who she knew she’ll fight for – fight for surviving, fight for her life.

 

All of that because her man told her _don’t_ , and she never will – _don’t stop fighting, don’t stop believing, don’t stop hoping, don’t stop loving_ …

  
And she won’t.

 

 

***

 

 

_VI_

 

Stiles was diagnosed with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. The good doctor had scolded Laurie when he asked her about Stiles’ dietary – “Too much sugar, all those candies and ice-creams and canned drinks – but if I were you I’d be more worried about the first part of his disorder rather than later. What was the saying – boys will be boys?” The doctor had chuckled a little at that, so she did too.

 

God, her 8–years old Boy Wonder was diagnosed…if she could, she’d laugh out loud – the looks she’ll garner be damn. It’s almost like Stiles was competing with her, to always come with some excuse to be with her at some point – at any point – like a love-hate relationship, although she knows with all her heart that this is Stiles, he _loves_ her just as much as she loves him, and really this is just the way that he was born, not some kind of a game and _God, her baby_.

 

When they was ushered out of the doctor's room, she had pulled him to one of the cold plastic chair and held Stiles' head between her hands, as she stared at her son's ember eyes. She ignored everything that her insecurities was screaming at her, as she forced herself to grin playfully at Stiles.

 

"You're perfect," she said, as she kissed his nose.

 

*

 

She should have known.

 

She should have fucking known.

 

4 months, 2 weeks, and 5 days. It was exactly 4 months, 2 weeks and 5 days after Stiles' first official test result – she had went to her son's room later that morning when he didn't came down for breakfast – Stiles was a lot of things, but missing breakfast was never his thing, ever.

 

And really, shock was an understatement.

 

Stiles was sitting on his chair at the table, a small rotating mirror perched on top of it, a straight comb in one hand and a pair of scissors in another, and the floor a mess of laundries, books and hair.

 

A lot of hair.

 

A small gasp was all it took for Stiles to notice his mom at his door. "Hey, Mom," he muttered, throwing a small smile over his shoulder.

 

Laurie rubbed at her eyes, forcing herself not to tear up at anything, and went to his side, bumping her hips with his shoulder. "Life is not a game, y'know? Just because I decided to go bald doesn’t mean you should too."

 

Down at the floor was all of Stiles' once beautiful hair, the same colour as Rick's. "Well," Stiles replied, as a single tear ran down his cheek, "I liked your new haircut, so whatever Mom."

 

Later that evening, Rick had taken out his trimmer and trimmed Stiles' bad haircut for him (“You should’ve just told me you wanted a haircut, the least I could do is make it nicer than this, y’know?”), the same way that he had done hers – out at the back lawn, under the evening sun. Afterwards, in a bout of camaraderie (Rick's and Stiles' argument) and total bullshit (Laurie's rebuttal), Stiles had done Rick's hair too, and the three of them became the town's Three Bald Mice, although none of town’s people knew about the name nor the story behind it.

 

*

 

Laurie hadn't asked, but Rick did.

 

And Stiles' answer was simple - "She made me a surprise, I just thought I would surprise her back." Rick had laughed first with Stiles, leaving his bedroom with kiss on top of his head and small smile on his lips, and afterward he had cried together with Laurie as he told her Stiles' exact words.

 

"He remembered," was all Laurie had said. "Of course he remembered."

 

To tell the truth, he had also remembered, but it's not going to bring him any good making her cry anymore than she already had.

 

 

***

 

 

_VII_

 

Things were…tough, for the lack of better words, these past 3 years.

 

Of course it was – between juggling her life as a mother and wife, and her life as a permanent fixture at the hospital, there was little time left to spend with her family, let alone actually be there when Stiles and Rick was at the dinner table instead of staring at nothing.  

 

Stiles was…lovely. He’s everything that she ever hope he will be brilliant and witty and talkative and merry in his own way – although it kills her to admit that she knows deep down Stiles was hurting, as much as she was from her illness. They always talk to each, each and every day – about school and hospital, about friends and doctors, about homework and medical diary – it was nice and sweet, and a whole lot bitter, but none of them are willing to back out of the habit for fear that any of it was their last one and it was short of one more talk to be a memory, to be _enough_.

 

Stiles already moved over his hyperactivity phase, true to the doctor’s words, and now he’d so-called promoted from the immediate-release to an extended-release type of Adderall, but still with a low dosage, and really, she’s better off thinking about Stiles’ medication rather than her own because…

 

Cervical cancer does many things to a person. One of it was the bloody discharges – not period, it’s just a bloody discharge – so most of the time she’s cranky and tired and smelly. Oh, and talking about tired, she’s not hungry at _anytime_ of the day, but since food is clearly essential, the doctor gave her steroids to help counter that effect and boost her appetite while giving her that energy boost she very much needed. She has severe back pain and muscle cramps in her legs at random times throughout the day, so sleeping with Rick is no longer an option (Rick, the gentleman that he is, chose to sleep on the floor (with a mattress, of course) so that he’ll “be close, in case of anything.”) since Rick tends to toss and turn in his sleep – Stiles took over this guy for that one. The chemotherapy drug sucks, a lot, because she’s losing hair like she’s losing all her patience counting the strands of hair that had fallen off her head, and now she’s the splitting image of any cancer patients – baggy clothing, that blue washed-off denim shirt, and ruffly skirt with a flat shoe and a bandana on her head to cover the baldness.

 

And Stiles, he just…he eats like a normal kid would, play around all the time, learn a lot of stuff and also how to be sarcastic and witty and smart from his mother, and any medication that he needs to worry about is that one 10mg Adderall XR that he has to take every single morning with a miss.

 

So you can clearly see why Laurie rather thinks about Stiles’ medication and his so-called promotion and all that – it’s just simpler that way. Compared to anything that was her life, this is simpler.

 

And Stiles really was.

 

*

 

Stiles had already ran to the hospital as soon as Rick killed off the engine, in hope to find some sort of amusement in messing up with Mrs. McCall and talking about his plan for a sleepover the next two nights. Rick climbed out of the Sheriff’s cruiser with a huge grin on his face – Laurie is going to be so proud of him with his promotion, he just knew. (She’d been nagging him about hiding his promotion letter, and well, the cruiser is as good as letter, right?)

 

He took careful steps as he jogged up the stairs and towards the now-familiar hospital hallway. Some of the friendly faces greeted him with ‘Deputy’ and in his heart he was shouting back at them with ‘It’s Sheriff’, but well, that can wait – his wife needs to hear this first (well, second; Stiles kinda knew about it when he picked him up from school earlier that evening). He took a sharp right turn and then went up to the third floor (the lift is going to take forever for him) and then took another right turn, out through a door, and a left after that, through another set of door, and then a final left to the waiting room, where Laurie was waiting for him, watching the television with her back to him.

 

Quietly, he tiptoed nearer to her, and as slowly as he could he closed her eyes with one of his hand, the other coming around her thin waist. “Hey,” he said in greetings, as he kissed the side of her neck down to her bare shoulder. “Hey,” Laurie replied, albeit a little shaky and a whole lot softer than his. “I have something for you,” and Laurie turned in his hold as her brows shot up, questioning.

 

“Oh? What is it?”

 

Rick really did all his best not to grin, but alas, he do tend to wear his heart on his sleeve for his family. “It’s a –”

 

“Wait,” Laurie instructed with her pointer finger lifted high up. “Lemme guess; is it a surprise? It’s not Stiles, right? Because I kinda endured 9 months for that one – I won’t really call him a surprise. Unless if you have another son and didn’t tell me anything about it.”

 

 

A small burst of laughter escaped his mouth – this is the very reason he fall in love with this woman. And he told her so; “I love you, you know?” Laurie grumbled in pretence, although she did press herself closer to Rick, mumbling something about ‘dumb man’ and ‘big ol’ softie’. Lifting her head a bit to look directly at his eyes, “Whatever. Come on, show me the surprise, husband dearest of mine.”

 

With that she led the way with a false sense of regal in her stance. Chuckling to himself, he took one of her hand and sneaked the other over to her hip. “Of course, lovely woman of mine.”

 

Together, they trudged as slowly as Laurie’s (tired) feet could carry her, down with the elevator, all the way to the front desk, where she talked to Melissa (“Stop talking nonsense with her, Stiles, God knows Scott already talked too many of that with her”) and Rick bent down to his knees as he whispered to Stiles to go back to the cruiser, and that when he came there with Laurie, he should do like a ‘ta-daa!’ move in front of the car. Clearly excited, Stiles nodded enthusiastically and ran off, his little feet echoing in the rather silent hallway.

 

“Come on,” he said, as he pulled a reluctant Laurie along with him. Out in the sun, Laurie looked beautiful even if her skin was paler than what he’s used to (he’ll never forget the real colour, never). He can’t help but stare at her, with a heavy feeling of longing and love towards his ever beautiful wife. When Laurie noticed that he was staring, she can’t help but smiled (coyly) at him. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

 

Flushing, he averted his gaze to where Stiles was practicing his little move with Kiki, his lithe limbs opening (and tearing, seriously, how tough is Kiki anyway?) the lanky blue arms as wide as could, while his mouth opened in what most probably was about to be the loudest ‘ta-daa!’ they’ll both hear.

 

He turned his head to look at Laurie, only to find that her head was lower than where he would always expect her head to be (her eyes were at the same height as his nose). He looked down at the pained expression in her face, her hand slipping away from his grip, and the heavy breathing noise. He looked back up at Stiles, to see that the kid was still distracted with his practice. To his right, he felt Laurie stumbling a little towards his own body, like she couldn’t longer hold herself up, and he tightened his grip on her waist. “Laurie?”

 

He tried to readjust his grip when Laurie fell to the ground, her body lying prone on the tar. “Laurie!” He called again, his voice more of a shout. Falling fast to his own knees, he continuously called for her as he carefully turned her around, the stilled air filled only with her names and her shallow and haggard breathing. “Laurie, Laurie, Laurie,” was stumbling out of his lips like a prayer, calling for his wife. He braved himself as he tore his eyes away from Laurie, looking for someone, until his eyes fall upon Stiles, who was looking shocked to the core, his eyes wide and his lips trembling in a silent cry. “Stiles.”

 

When Stiles ignored his first call, he shouted Stiles’ name as loud as he could, breaking the silence of the outdoor parking lot of the hospital. Stiles’ teary eyes found his, and as he locked his gaze he gestured for Stiles to come closer, scooping Laurie single-handedly to his laps. “Stiles, I want you to go and call for Melissa, okay? Can you do that?” Beside him, Stiles was visibly shaking, but somehow he managed to heave in a huge gulp of breath, before slowly nodding and turning around, running as fast as he could after a few drag of his feet.

 

Looking down at Laurie in his laps – her blue-tinged lips and her swollen eyes – he cradled her closer to his face, kissing and breathing in her scent, whispering to her, “Don’t let go, please. _Don’t_ let go…”   

 

*

 

In the reserve, a high orange and red tongue flicked and danced to the night as fire fighters and ambulances and the siren that come with them drew nearer and nearer still. The cries of the wolves sounded for the first time in Beacon Hills, dusts and ashes falling down to the ground like raindrops and tears.

 

*

 

The nurse looked at the doctor. “Doctor Richmond?” she prompted. At the sound of his name, his reverie was broken. “Sorry,” he replied, simply. “Time of death?”

 

“1824 hours,” the nurse answered back.

 

Doctor Richmond nodded. “Cause of death, cervical cancer, a severe bleeding on the right vaginal wall.” Methodically, the doctor peeled off his surgical gloves and disposed of them in the biohazard waste bin. The nurse with the clipboard walked briskly to his side – Melissa, that’s her name – before slowly lowering her surgical mask. Her face looked hardened, like she was having a hard time absorbing the news herself. “I…” she said, and promptly falls into silence, like she didn’t quite know how to proceed.

 

Richmond took pity of her – they were friends, Laurie and Melissa – so he squeezed her thin arms and nodded once to her. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell the Deputy and Stiles myself.” And with that, he escaped the ER and tore off his surgical gown, scrubbing his hands once, twice, all the while trying to calm himself – he wasn’t that good of a friend with Laurie, but over the years her sunshine smile and personality really did coloured the rather dull hospital, and well, it’s really hard not liking one of your patients when that little runt she called her own was a constant presence in the hospital. Stiles and Scott, though Scott’s story was more of a heartbreak and a one-off story – Melissa don’t really like to discuss about it, and he understand. He really did.

 

As he dried off his hands with some paper towels, he took his coat off the hook on the side of the door. Taking another few calming breath and slipping into his white coat, he pushed the door and walked out, spotting the Deputy sitting in one of those darn plastic chairs, his head steadied in one hand. He was about to call Rick when a solid weight crashed to his lower half, gangly arms holding tight to his own. He looked down and saw Stiles’ buzzed head, his face smashed to his stomach, clearly crying. Carefully, he plucked Stiles’ arms off and he crouched low so that he was eye-level with Stiles, who was now angrily scrubbing his face off any traces of tears. _This is one brave boy_ , he thought to himself.

 

Off the corner of Stiles’ head, he saw Rick slowly getting up from the chair and looking as confused and worn-out as any man could. Slowly, he pulled Stiles close for an embrace, and as Stiles wound his arms about his neck, he looked up at Rick, shaking his head as much as he could in Stiles’ tight hold.

 

Rick choked off a gasp before he too fall to his knees, tears rolling off his face and down to the ground.

 

*

 

Laura had asked him to wait for her outside, while she fills out the form for Peter. In was dark outside, and the night was clear, clearer still with the half-moon shining brightly high up in the starless night.

 

 _It was all his fault. It was all his fau_ –

 

He stopped short in his steps, and as he bent down, he picked up the lanky blue monkey, who smelled exactly like that small kid and that sick lady. There was a trace of new tears, the smell of salt and water and cinnamon and medication made him choked off, out of nowhere, and slowly, he fall down to his knees, tears streaming down his face.

 

He didn’t know how long he was crying, his face pressed into the monkey’s stomach. That was how Laura found him later, crying into a monkey toy. She ran quickly to his side, her bare knees scrapping and healing instantly as she fall to Derek’s side. They stayed like that for a while, Laura’s hand holding Derek as close to her chest possible, Derek himself had his face smashed into the blue monkey toy he found out of nowhere.

 

Later, when things wound down a little, and the both of them were reduced to little sniffles and sobs, Derek stood up and held his hand for Laura, who took it in a tight grip. Derek was intently staring at the doll in his hand. “Are you going to return it?” Laura asked – she was sure Derek didn’t know who it belonged to, but with the lingering scents they can both track it down if Derek deemed it necessary.

 

It took him quite some time to answer her question, and when he did, he looked up at Laura, his face stoic and unreadable for strangers. “No,” he replied curtly. “I think I’ll keep this one.” 

 

 


	2. The present, but in past tense.

 

 

The thing about Stiles is that he’s not just some lazy-asshole as Jackson had called him – no, he really is not. He’s the ‘selective lazy-assholes’ kind like...look, there is a list of things that Stiles would love to do right now (like _right now_ -right now), another list of things that Stiles would love to do somewhere in the nearest of near future, and huge pile of mentally-noted by the buckets of list of stuff that he would rather, for the love of God, _not_ do in his _entire life_.

 

And that includes supervising the Hale’s renovation. Or being dragged around by Jackson Jackass Whittemore – he’s anything _but_ a masochist, _fuck you_ very much, Jackson.

 

Seriously, how can anybody trust a 16-years old with a low span of attention, a dire need to know about anything that has the least to do with him, a death wish by the dozen when it comes to things that he should not _do_ , and also a healthy dose of supernatural feat that could’ve (and seriously, will) kill him almost every other day, to ever supervise a house renovation that was done by a group of _strangers_?

 

 _Male_ strangers.

 

The answer to that would be Jackson – and somehow Stiles’ instinct tells him that Jackson is most probably influenced by Peter Hale, because that dude is just... _wow_. Seriously, Jackson needed to have a douche-baggery-vention, like, right at this instance, because that dude is certainly not learning anything by his NDE and being influenced by Peter Hale is never going to earn him a pace in Santa’s List of Good Boys – heck, being anywhere _near_ Peter won’t bring you _anything_ but a constant vibe of discomfort and fear.

 

Seriously, bad choice for a mentor.

 

*

 

It was a rather normal Friday evening. School’s still a long way (12 days to be exact), and he was just chatting with Scott – who was busy texting someone, geez – on Skype, talking about nothing and everything unrelated to Allison because that still hurts Scott a little – Stiles can tell, his eyes does this little twitch. They were off talking about the new Halo 4 that’s going to be released somewhere towards the end of the year and – _wait, why is Scott looking guilty?_

 

“Scott?”

 

“Wha – what?” _And jumpy_ , Stiles thought as Scott looked straight at his camera, before looking over at the video feed of his own camera and practically realized how guilty he was looking. “Oh no, nothing. I just – uh, I just, y’know. I – uh.”

 

“Scott, you know that –” Stiles’ word was cut short as the sound of an unfamiliar engine cut through the relative quietness of the day. Scott probably heard that too, werewolf senses and all that, but mumbling a quick sorry and logging off Skype wasn’t really going to make Stiles know who that was.

 

Or make Stiles as calm and level-headed as he needs to be right the fuck now, _what the hell, Scott?_

 

He was just about to shoot Scott with a quick text (‘What the hell man?’) when his window creaked open and Jackson Whittemore climbed in with the slightest thump as he landed squarely on his feet. Stiles managed a quick “What the...” before Jackson yanked him off his chair and dragged his (sorry) ass down the stairs and off the front porch. Stiles landed on his butt as Jackson had all but dumped him a short few inches away from his Porsche. Groaning, Stiles pushed himself up to his feet, and after making some angry noises from his throat, shot Jackson a nasty glare – one that had no impact on Jackson whatsoever, but still, it’s the thought that count. “What the hell, dude?” Stiles asked after his attempt of pulling answers out of Jackson by sheer willpower (and flailing arms) failed.

 

“I need your help.” And with that, Jackson ran back to the front door and locked it. That was thoughtful of him, really. But wait... “Hey, I don’t have any keys with me, how am I going to get back in, dumbass?” Jackson raised a single eyebrow at Stiles, like he’s talking about some sort of nonsense, before nonchalantly shrugging and going over to the driver side. “I bet Derek can haul your scrawny ass up to your bedroom, no biggie.” And with that, Jackson opened the door and slithered into the car, leaving Stiles looking like a landed fish.

 

*

 

Throughout the ride, Jackson either ignored Stiles or grunted at any of his questions, like that is an answer, _asshole_. But the road that they drove on was (eerily) familiar, and sure enough within 15 (suicidal) minutes, they reached the Hale’s house, in two pieces. Because there’s Stiles’ piece and Jackson’s – _okay, whatever Stiles_.

 

The house was undergoing a (major) renovation – that much can be said based solely from the huge truck outside with a ‘Reno-Vators!’ logo (seriously, Reno? That’s the best you can come up with?) plastered on the driver’s door. Not to mention that one side of the wall, the one that was not entirely ruined, was now _entirely_ ruined, and a huge pile of charred woods and rubbles were being thrown out into a huge metal dumpster, one that brings back memories of Erica’s first werewolf-y task. There were men going around picking up stuff and banging down on the walls and using those huge machineries to drill out even more holes on the already-ruined house, and among them, Stiles soon realized, was Derek.

 

Looking just like another worker.

 

No seriously, imagine this: Derek Hale, his head covered with a deep-blue hardhat, the strap dangling aimlessly as if to further compliment his immaculate jaw line, his usual brownish wife beater, a loose khaki pants, a leather boots, and a rolled up paper in his hand. And oh, his default scowling facial expression. If that is not one of Reno’s workers, well, Stiles would wonder where’s the camera pointing at this male model here.

 

_O-kay Stilinski, that got out of ya hand there. Play it cool._

 

“What are you doing here?” Derek asked nobody in particular, his face getting frownier (if that’s even possible) before he swings the rolled-up paper to motion at both Stiles and Jackson.

 

Since Jackson was making his version of stupid fish face, trying to articulate a proper answer to Derek’s question while playing with his folded-up sunglasses, Stiles took up the liberty of actually answering the question. “I dunno man, I mean this _douche-bag_ here,” Stiles pointed at Jackson with a thumb over his shoulder, “came into my room without even knocking, man-napped my sorry ass and drove me here. I mean, I would’ve probably come here, _willingly_ , if he could’ve just asked me politely, but _noh_ , have to do it the primitive way, eh? Plus, what’s up with that stupid hardhat anyway?”

 

At that, Derek sort of made a move to maybe remove his hat, before he casually slid his hand to scrub at his ever-present stubble. Stiles couldn’t help the snort that came out involuntarily at that, nor the yowl when Jackson poked his side with a very sharp, very un-human nail. “What the hell?” Stiles retaliated, glaring at the smirking Jackson while rubbing his side. Derek’s heavy sigh caught both of their attention, and slowly, Derek climbed down the porch and gestured for the both of them to follow him. They stopped a good few meters away from the house, where the normal human ears couldn’t pick out any part of their conversation, not with all those banging noises and whatnot. _How can Derek stand being in this entire ruckus with his werewolf-y hearing, anyway?_

 

“What did I asked you to do?” Derek asked – his stern glare focused entirely on Jackson’s gaping face. Jackson took a good few seconds before his (ex-)lizard brain finally clicked with the necessary information and answered Derek, barely stuttering under the Alpha’s stern glare. “I – uh, you asked me to find somebody to oversee the renovation, while we moved your stuffs, so I, uh –”

 

Jackson didn’t get his chance to fully answer Derek’s question when Derek cut him off with a, “ _Yes_ , and you brought me who?” Seriously though, that eyebrow, God, they’re like alive or something, moving – or more like _wiggling_ – on their own: it’s amusing.

 

Until what Derek said hit Stiles like a ton of bricks. “Wait, what? What do you mean, ‘who’? I’m good!” Jackson snorted beside him, and Derek rolled his eyes like he really don’t want to argue with Stiles on that particular topic. _Rude_. He turned around to look at Jackson, self-conscious colouring his stance. “I’m good, right? I mean, why else would you barge into my house if I’m no good? Right?”

 

Jackson crossed his arms over his chest, levelling an unimpressed stare at Stiles. “I only go to you because Lydia said you would, and I quote, ‘definitely help without much questions’.” Jackson even did the air-quote gesture. “Clearly,” Jackson continue, “She’s wrong about the last part.” There’s a quiet chuckle that came from Derek’s direction, and when Stiles looked up Derek was already moving back towards the site, the rolled-up paper supported on his right shoulder. “What are you chuckling about?” Stiles shouted to Derek’s back and naturally, there’s no reply. “Asshole,” Stiles muttered under his breath, although he knew Derek could hear him perfectly.

 

*

 

Apparently, what Derek really wanted was an eye, someone to just oversee the whole wrecking of his burn-out shell of a house while he transfer some of his ‘personal items’ – that consist of multiple trunks, most of them with the same insignia tattooed to his back. Isaac and Peter were already waiting for Derek and Jackson back at the Lahey’s residence, so those two were out of the question. And Scott’s out too, since he’s all ‘I’m not part of your pack, Derek’ and all that – although he did told Jackson where to find Stiles; that was the reason why he looked so guilty back then.

 

Derek had pulled Stiles to his Camaro at one point before he left, talking about a basement passage that leads to some sort of underground room (“Why do you need underground room again?” – “Stiles, focus!”). Derek said that there are still few stuff down there – some of the items that survived the fire, some books, clothes, dining ware, whatever – and that that’s the real reason why he needed an eye – to make sure that those items stay down there, and not in someone else’s pockets.

 

(Stiles had thought about it, for three whole seconds, before he opened his mouth. “But what if _I_ took some stuff? Wouldn’t it land in ‘someone else’s pockets’ too?”

 

Derek had gazed at his face before he seemed to relax a little bit. “Technically. But if it’s you, I’ll know where to find them.”)

 

He’d been playing an hour worth of Draw Something with both Lydia and Danny ever since Derek and Jackson left – somehow the line at Derek’s house was really clear. Danny was still (a little bit) clueless about the whole supernatural thing, but Lydia is now a full-fledge member of Beacon Hills’ Supernatural Team (Stiles came out with that name), although she did bitched about being left in the dark for quite some time and having to find out this whole thing through a dead person.

 

Talking about dead person...

 

Peter coming back to life was a real shocker for Stiles. That night, after Gerard ran away and Jackson turned into a werewolf, Stiles almost missed the whole ‘Peter is back’ notification if not for Isaac mentioning about driving back to his house with Derek and Peter. Stiles had gaped at Isaac – that dude never met Peter before, right? – and shrieked really loud when Peter suddenly emerged behind him, whispering a soft “Hello, Stiles,” at him. Thank God Derek was there, grabbing Peter by his shirt and had all but dragged him out of the warehouse. After that, he sort of made Scott swore he would never get involved with Peter in any form or otherwise.

 

“Hey kid!”

 

Stiles looked up from his current attempt to perfectly draw a flamingo for Danny. One of Reno’s guy, a hunk with a cute smile ( _what the fuck, Stiles?_ ) was directing said cute smile at him, his hardhat held firmly between his bulging arm and his (hot, seriously) body. “We’re done here for the day. Wanna ride?”

 

If Stiles were anymore desperate than he’ll ever be, he’d say that that was an ‘invitation’. But alas, he was not looking for any and he’s not that desperate, so he just smiled back at the guy and shook his head. “Nah, I’m going to call Derek and ask him to pick me up. I’ll stay here for awhile.” The guy looked to his left and right, taking in the surrounding – the trees, the darkening day, the rather abandoned place. “You sure?”

 

Stiles nodded and managed a quite laugh. “Yeah, I sure. I’ve been here quite some time, I know my way in case if there’s anything. Don’t need to worry.” The good guy smiled for one last time before he ran back to his friends, who were all set to leave. With a wave, Reno and his crew drove out of Stiles’ view, and out of the Hale property. Once it was quite again, Stiles sent Derek a quick text, telling him that the crew had already left and that he was sure that there’s no items missing or whatsoever (he was not _sure_ -sure, but well, Derek doesn’t need to know that right?).

 

Stiles walked from the tree that he was leaning on all the way to the front door, peeking in. There’s no longer second floor, all of what’s left was the vast space that is the first floor with no walls and few beams that somehow survived the fire and today’s roughhousing. With careful steps, Stiles walked into the house, his ears on alert as the wooden floor underneath his feet creaked and groaned under the pressure of his steps. The Hale house is huge, seriously – with all those blackened walls gone, Stiles can finally see how big the house is, or rather how big it used to be – Derek did mentioned that half of the house was ruined completely due to the fire.

 

Stiles never been inside of the house – he only been outside of the house, and also on the front porch, peeking into through the holes and broken windows – he wasn’t that brave enough to go into a burned down house with an angry werewolf residing in it. But somehow, with all these walls gone and the prospect of a new house being built on the same ground, Stiles felt like he should at least take a look inside, see how the original shell looked like, how  the –

 

 

***

 

 

Stiles looked up from where he was lying under the floor – like _under_ the floor, the floor that was supposed to be holding him up is now a huge hole some good 15 feet _above_ him, _fuck_. Stiles groaned as he pushed himself into a proper sitting position, taking in his gloomy surrounding. _This must be the basement thingy Derek was talking about_ , Stiles thought to himself.  Stiles couldn’t really see what was in front of him for the lack of proper lighting, so he pulled out his phone (no reception, nice) and tapped the screen a few times. The dim glow of his phone was almost like the morning glare in the basement, the bright white light causing Stiles to flinch and squints his eyes in reflex.

 

It took him a couple of seconds before his eyes could refocus, and as it does, Stiles could now see the tell-tale of a huge metal door, ajar. Stiles took account of all his options – 1) wait for Derek to reach here, 2) while waiting, get bitten by something that is not a werewolf and might be poisonous, 3) find your own exit – and a quick mental pep-talk later (“Come on, come on, you can do this Stiles, make ‘em Stilinski proud.”) he steeled himself and as calmly as he could, Stiles moved slowly towards the door. Stiles noticed that the door was a little bit rusty, and while glancing to either sides of the door, Stiles slowly pulled the door towards his body. The metal groaned once but it didn’t budge. Frustrated, Stiles tugged at the door harder, and that only made the whole door frame to rattle, still not moving. Gingerly placing his phone between his lip-covered teeth, Stiles used both of his hands and started to pull and push the door handle as hard as he could, his own breathing and the metallic groan the only sound in that place.

 

Giving up, Stiles took back his phone from his mouth and with an angry cry, kicked the damned door as hard as he could, only to cry out in pain as he jumped up and down on one leg, his right leg positively crushed. He looked back up at the door in front of him, with a renewed vengeance, only to finally see the door sliding a few centimetres to the left. “Oh, for fuck sake.”

 

Using his body weight, Stiles pushed open the sliding door (of course it’s a sliding door, it’s a sound plan against the zombies), Stiles stumbled upon a room, with a single table at one side (or what Stiles hope to be a table) and the rest of the room in complete darkness. Fumbling with his phone in one hand, Stiles made a move to the left side of the room, staying as close as he could with the wall, finding for a light switch – because obviously this room have to have a light switch somewhere.

 

It took him quite some time but he did in fact managed to find a light switch, for a single light bulb in the middle of the room. Happy with that sad, gloomy light bulb, Stiles pocketed his phone and started to walk to the middle of the room, underneath the humming bulb, taking in the rest of the room.

 

There are several beams surrounding the room, probably holding up the floor up ahead. A sort of metal fence/bar thingy that Stiles couldn’t really put a name to was fixed at the centre of the room, a little bit to the back – if he squint his eyes, he was sure he could see some shackles and chains attached to the metal whatever. Turning around, Stiles walked back to the table that he first saw. There was several stuff on top of the table, stuff that he didn’t really know the name of, some of them looked familiar though, like that box of fancy voltmeter...

 

\-----

 

_“Shh, I’m going to save you, okay? Shh”_

_“Aaah!”_

_“They were trying to_ warn _you...”_

_“What are you doing with them?”_

 

\-----

 

“No.” Stiles pulled back his hand like it was physically burn – the memory was enough to scar him for life. “No. No, no, no nonononononono,” with each no’s, Stiles took one step back, away from the table, away from the stuff on it, away from the stuff about it, the memories. He was backing up as quickly as he could, eyes glued on that intricate piece of a voltmeter on the table, not looking back – which was why he didn’t quite see the trunk behind him, why as he fall down to his back, he was still trying to get away from the table, kicking and pushing himself back.

 

Until his back hit the wall.

 

Until there’s no choice but to face it.

 

 

***

 

 

“Stiles texted me – I’m going to pick him up.” Isaac and Jackson both nodded at him from the kitchen counter, Isaac rinsing some vegetables and Jackson mixing what Derek hopes a bowl of _edible_ dinner. Peter was missing again, going somewhere that he deemed unnecessary for the rest of the pack to know about – so long as he’s not chopping people up, Derek could use all the time away from him.

 

Picking up his keys and jacket, he pushed open the door and jogged briskly to his Camaro, slipping into his jacket first before climbing into his ride. Well, at least he’s done with all the moving – all there’s left was Stiles.

 

 

***

 

 

“Stupid hunters.”

 

It took Stiles quite a few minutes to calm his nerves down – it’s stupid, he knows, but every time he even sees something that reminds him of that old man, he’d be having hard time breathing. It’s not really a nervous breakdown or a panic attack; it’s just...that man was crazy – crazier still when Isaac told him what his plan was. Most of the nights that Stiles managed to actually fall asleep, he’d wake up somewhere in the early morning, sweating and breathing a dying man’s breath – dreams, about an old, crazy man; the sound of current flowing; tortured wolves; black, pungent blood.

 

With a heave, Stiles pushed himself off the floor, still leaning heavily on the wall, only now seeing the trunk that made him fall to his ass. Slowly, as if not wanting to spook the box – who knows, it might be charmed or enchanted or something – Stiles approached it, and when it appeared that the box won’t swallow him whole, he righted the trunk, a solid thump resonating throughout the rather silent walls of the room. There’s a single padlock in front, guarding whatever it is inside of the trunk. There’s no insignia or pattern drawn across the top of the trunk – it’s either a trunk that doesn’t belong to Derek, or it’s just something else entirely. The padlock looked old though, and as Stiles scanned through the room, he found a rusted crowbar. Holding it tightly with both hands, Stiles struck the lock once, and (thankfully) the padlock gave way, the old, probably rusted lock breaking into two clean pieces.

 

Setting the crowbar aside, Stiles removed the remaining padlock that was still attached to the latch. Stiles hesitated for a moment, his hands a mere inches away from opening the trunk. “You can do this, Stiles.” A deep inhale, a sigh. Another deep breath. “Come, there’s nothing here to eat you – there’s probably nothing that’s going to eat you inside this stupid trunk anyway. Oh my God, did I just jinx myself? _Crap_.”

 

Another breath intake, and Stiles tore open the trunk, the top of the trunk hitting the ground before bouncing off, threatening to shut back. Stiles took one look inside of the box, and he instantly cried.

 

 

***

 

 

As Derek parked his car near to the front porch, he fished out his phone and sent a short text to Stiles, asking him to come out. A few seconds later he received a reply, only that it was from his service provider. The text read, ‘ _the number_ (xxx) xxx-xxxx _is not reachable_ ’.

 

Cursing to himself, Derek cut off the ignition and climbed out of his car. Scenting the air, he recognized Stiles’ peculiar smell, one that was somewhat familiar to him, in some way. The scent was fresh, new even, and it went into the reconstruction site. Grumbling under his breath, Derek climbed up the porch and into his now barren house – there’s no more second floor, no more stairs, no more walls. It’s completely and utterly ruined – this Reno guy is good, Derek have to give him that – and soon there’ll be a new house, a new home for him and his pack. Derek followed Stiles’ scent, his nose leading him and his eyes looking at the progress that is the demolition of his own house, when suddenly the ground disappeared and the next thing Derek knew he was down on the ground, groaning as he felt his back muscles healing the sudden impact – he wasn’t quite expecting that, nor was he prepared for the hole to be that _deep_.

 

The perk of being a born werewolf – or just werewolf, really – was that his eyes adjusted themselves instantly under the low light, enabling him to recognize the place he was in. The lock room: this was where his parents would chained up the new members of their pack during the full moon, teaching and guiding them on how to control their wolves, how to find that anchor. The last time he was here...well, that last time there’s Kate, and there really was no need to think about that bitch, since he had to find Stiles. Talking about Stiles...

 

The first thing he heard was the soft sobbing, not really crying but more like soft sniffling, like somebody already poured all their hearts out and all that’s left was the broken shell of it – he’d been there, once when he was still practically a kid and his whole family was left to burn alive. Next was smell, Stiles’ scent and something else – tears, salty and heavy and wet; old books, the smell of old papers and ink; and something else... Something familiar.

  
 _The monkey_.

 

Derek wrenched the door open – wider – the metal groaning and protesting under his pull. The room was utterly quiet, save for the buzzing of the light bulb up ahead and the sounds that Stiles’ making: sudden increase in his heartbeat, the little sniffles that he couldn’t quite yet stop making. At the centre of the room was Laura’s trunk – he remembered that one, Dad made it for her himself – and somewhere to the side was a crowbar and a broken padlock. A few feet away from the trunk was Stiles – his back to Derek, hunched over something that Derek wasn’t able to see from this angle. “Stiles?” Derek called.

 

When Stiles remained quiet, Derek tried approaching Stiles slowly, making an arch towards Stiles, coming from the side instead of directly from behind. The nearer Derek gets the louder Stiles’ rapid-beating heart grew. “Stiles,” Derek tried again. “Are you okay?” Three more steps, and that brought Derek much closer to Stiles, and if it’s not for his hearings, he wouldn’t catch the words mumbled by Stiles.

 

“Why do you have him?” Stiles asked.

 

Derek halted his advancement, a questioning (and worried, he had to admit) frown forming on his face. “Him,” Derek reiterated. There’s a loud sniff as Stiles ran the back of his hand across his face, his shoulder and back tense as he rose up to his feet, turning around and shoving Derek’s blue monkey at his face. “ _Him!_ ” Stiles had all but roared the word, that one syllable echoing in the room. “Why do you have him, Derek? Why is Kiki in your hand? Why Derek, why?!”

 

Derek stood there, silent, as he took in Stiles’ angry face and the toy that Stiles’ currently cuddling close to his chest. “Kiki...” Derek repeated, for once completely lost for words. Derek’s eyes latched on the trembles that passed through Stiles’ lips, the way his teeth were biting into his lower lips, the hint of metallic tang of blood that rose in the air, enough for Derek to smell it this close. “You... You lost him.”

 

As if that one sentences was the final blow to the broken dam, tears began to roll off Stiles’ face, pain and hurt coloured his face, violent and crushed sobs bursting through his mouth. And Derek didn’t quite know what to do – whiny teenagers, sure he can handle that; heck, he can even make Isaac learn something he’s not willing to do without much violence involve. But crying teenagers?

 

Even Erica never cried in front of him. Laura was another story entirely – before she had the privilege of a locked door, and then she was the Alpha, one that the instinct taught to never show weakness to those below him.

 

The same instinct that now Derek has; the same instinct that told him, ‘Go. Protect your boy.’

 

Derek  took a tentative step forward, closer to Stiles, opening his arms just a little, in what he hoped was an invitation for Stiles – for comfort, for lashing out, he’s not sure which. But before he could even contemplate either he should say something or open his arms wider, Stiles came crushing to his chest, burying his teary face on Derek’s shoulder, Kiki locked tight to his chest, his arms squeezed between Derek’s chest and his own in his attempt to keep the blue monkey close. Dumbfounded, Derek soon took the initiative to pat (awkwardly) at Stiles’ back, feeling the boy huddling up closer still, their bodies aligned from chest to toes.

 

Derek didn’t realized how long they stayed like that, nor when did they ever moved, but one minute they were standing in the middle of the room – Stiles crying his heart out on Derek’s shoulder, and Derek trying his best on calming Stiles down – the next they’re sitting down on the floor, Derek leaning on the wall behind him and Stiles leaning on Derek’s chest, the weight a soothing pressure to Derek. Stiles was brushing the monkey, Kiki – the singed head on top, there must’ve been a story to that. They stayed like that for awhile, Stiles running his hand over and over again on the monkey’s head, his inhalation deep and his heartbeat a steady tempo, and Derek listening to Stiles – breathing, the hiccup here and there, his beating heart.

 

After a moment, when Stiles’ breathing was normal again and his heart was calm, Stiles took in one deep breath, before clearing his throat, ready for whatever speech he had in mind. “When I was six,” Stiles began, “Mom burned Kiki’s hair. He used to have long white hair, this long,” Stiles’ hand a few inches above the head, Derek’s eyes seeing the long-lost hair, “But then she ‘accidentally’ burned Kiki’s hair in the dryer – she should’ve sundried it, but she said she couldn’t remember why she didn’t. Dad said it’s probably because she’s too lazy. I didn’t really blame her.”

 

Stiles moved his hand lower, until it reached the left leg, where a stub of what ought to be the label remained. “This one,” Stiles continued, “This I did him. I couldn’t remember why; Mom said I told her that I don’t like the name of the brand or whatever it was written on the tag, so I took a small scissors and cut it off myself. And all Dad was worried about was the fact that I held a scissors without anyone knowing about it.” A small chuckle emitted from Stiles, the motion made clear as Derek’s chest vibrated along with it – and unknowingly, Derek mimicked the chuckle. Stiles must’ve been surprised, he turned in Derek’s hold to look at Derek face, before suddenly noticing just how close they both were, and a small flush coloured his tear-stricken face. He tried to pull himself away, but Derek tightened his arms around Stiles’ waist, not willing for him to go. _Not now_ , his wolf told him.

 

 “I...”

 

Stiles immediately stopped squirming as the word fled Derek’s mouth – Derek didn’t know why but somehow that one word sounded like a shout to his ears, loud even though barely above a whisper. Swallowing dryly, Derek cleared his throat and tried again. “I found that blue monkey –”

 

“Kiki,” Stiles corrected.

 

“Right, on the parking lot at the hospital. It was...”

 

“The day this house was burned,” Stiles finished for Derek, his voice dripping with revelation, before silence drowned whatever it was that either Derek or Stiles was supposed to say. After a moment, Stiles turned back to look at Derek, a small smile plastered on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For your lost.”

 

Derek knew that that night, Stiles had his fair share of lost too, a lost as large as Derek’s although smaller in number. But somehow Derek didn’t feel like he should remind Stiles of that, the kid had probably worn himself down crying over the lost. So instead, Derek shook his head, somehow managing to bring his head an inch closer to Stiles, the smell of sweat and Stiles’ own sweet scent filling up his nostrils. “‘s not your fault,” Derek said. He wasn’t quite sure what took over him, but he bent down his head, leaning against the back of Stiles’ neck and inhaling deeply, the scent of Stiles – and somehow that hazy smell made his head a whole lot clearer than it had ever been. “I’m sorry. For not returning your Kiki.”

 

Stiles’ laughter that met him surprised Derek – Derek lifting his head to look at the back of Stiles’ head, his ears tinged with red. “It’s not your fault either. You kept him for me, thank you.” That had Derek ducked down his head again, burying his face on the back of Stiles’ neck, hiding the small smile that Stiles somehow managed to pull out of Derek. Derek took a breather and two, filled with Stiles’ scent, before he spoke directly to Stiles’ skin, “Thank you for giving me the chance.”

 

 

***   

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The ending scene (hospital open carpark) was inspired by this song, by the lovely Ms. Lucy Spraggan, UK's X-Factor current contestant, entitled [Tea and Toast](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QRRWnp6_rhA). 
> 
>  
> 
> The line "Take a picture, it'll last longer" is from this absolute favourite fic of mine that is super long and super angsty for reasons by the fierce linksofmemories, [Permanent Fixture](http://archiveofourown.org/works/518387/chapters/915659).


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